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'The Cherry Orchard' review or 'Is this an express train?!'

The Cherry Orchard, Chekhov – adapted by Simon Stephens

Young Vic, 20th October 2014

Well that was bracing! Simon
Stephens’ adaptation of ‘The Cherry Orchard’, directed with panache by Katie
Mitchell, clocks in at just under 2 hours. There is no interval. The language
is stripped back and gleefully direct. The characters are huge. The comedy
billows out in great gusts and there’s a weird, stomach clenching tension to
the whole show which sucks the breath right out of you.

This isn’t Chekhov as we know
it – and thank God for that. I have seen many ‘Cherry Orchards’ that have been
so grand that they’ve practically buckled under the weight of their own
earnestness – and so have I. But Mitchell and Stephens’ version, although
framed by a familiarly shabby mansion (brilliant dilapidated detail from
designer Vicki Mortimer), feels light and nimble on its feet. This isn’t a
Chekhov production that is trying to impress its audience – but to enthral,
exhilarate and engage.

Where to start with a show
that veers off in so many wild but necessary directions? The characters seem as
good a place to start as any. ‘The Cherry Orchard’ is often pitched as a star
vehicle, during which a suitably grand dame plays Lyubov Ranevskaya, the aristocratic
Russian matriarch whose beloved home and orchard will be soon be up for public
auction and who has done ‘awful things’ in a bid to keep her family afloat and herself
amused. I last saw the role played by Zoe Wanamaker at the National and it was
very impressive but the performance and production felt ever so ‘theatre-y’.
What is perhaps surprising is that, for all the flourishes and sparky liberties
taken with this Young Vic production, it feels more realistic – or at least
more faithful to the spirit of Chekhov’s vibrant original – than the more
refined and supposedly ‘authentic’ productions I have seen in the past.

Whilst in past versions of The
Orchard, Ranevskaya acts as the linchpin of the show – the dramatic centre
around which everything and everyone revolves - Kate Duchêne is more like the
unsettling undercurrent, which bubbles dangerously beneath the stage. Duchêne’s
Ranevskaya isn’t particularly grand. She wears a non-descript black dress and
her voice isn’t hugely imposing – yet there is something thrillingly unstable
about her. A weird sorrow and seediness clings at her skin.

Katie Mitchell and her music
(Paul Clark) and sound (Gareth Fry) bods have accented the show – and the
characters within it (particularly Ranevskaya) – with bold bursts of music. A
symphony of tension builds throughout, shading in the already distinctive
characters. Varya mentions the ‘awful’ things that her mother has done to preserve
the family and clanging chords swell up around us. When Ranevskaya mentions her
dead mother, the cast freezes and ghostly music tingles; Ranevskaya alludes to
her drowned son and sharp dissonances clang in the background.

This is Chekov with all the
edges exposed – odd and angular and spiky. The music carves out a sense of
sorrow and mortality that is sometimes muted in more restrained productions.
Spiky performances bring Chekhov’s themes into glaring focus, as does Stephens’
boldly pared down script. Gawn Grainger, who plays Ranevskaya’s ageing servant,
spends most of his time crawling about the stage with his back bent in two. At
one point he scrabbles about on the floor to retrieve Ranevskaya’s footstool. He
is kicked in the guts and treated appallingly. ‘My life has passed me by’, he
says, and the injustice of a life spent kneeling at the feet of others, is made
shockingly clear.

Other character verge towards caricature
in a way that some critics have sniffed at but I think only adds further layers
to this intriguingly textured production. In the case of such a lucid and purposeful
show, heightened characters and oddly accented dramatic encounters do not
simplify or trivialise the play – but actually deepen it, emphasizing the ideas
and conflicts nestling within this all-too-frequently papered down production.

Angus Wright plays Ranevskaya’s
brother, Gaev, as a man sunken inside himself and at the end of his wits. His
speech practically leaks out of him and his eyes are permanently cast
downwards. He has some strange verbal tics and, whilst he is almost always
accompanied by other people, he seems set apart from the world. The fact that
this man, over all those smart women that surround him, is sent to represent
the family at the public auction of their house, reflects the unchallenged
oppression of women in Russia at the turn of the 20th Century.

Sarah Malin plays the
governess, Charlotte, as some sort of bonkers caricature that might have leaped
out of a Country Living magazine – on the week it was being edited by Russell
Brand. She is crackers. At one point, she rushes on stage stark naked whilst
brandishing a rifle; she chomps down on a cucumber as if it is a penis she
wants to DESTROY and performs fiery magic tricks. She is the spark and laughter
and energy and dynamism that none of the aristocratic characters seem able to
embrace. She is the possibility of change – and a vivid reminder that Chekhov
is very, very funny.

Threaded amongst all of this
are cheeky references to guns – which Chekhov always believed should be used if
ever mentioned – and mournful guitar solos, really quite vicious sexual trysts,
beautiful changes in the lighting state, a gentle build of a haunting jazz
ensemble somewhere off stage and always, always, the quiet rumble of the train –
and all the change that train represents – storming through the production and
threatening to smash us all to smithereens.